The Hurrieder I Go, the Behinder I Get.

I am late nearly everywhere I go.  Not hours late (usually), but often somewhat late.  My mind seems to come up with some sort of mathematical formula regarding how late I can be.  I can be three minutes late to work.  I can be an hour or two late to watch Jess ride at a horse show (shows last ALL day long for three days).   Dinner invitation, fifteen minutes; party, thirty minutes to an hour.

I'm not saying there is any justification to my tardiness, just  stating how my brain seems to work.  I think my inability to be timely stems from two things: (1) my complete lack of ability to entertain myself, so I HATE being anywhere too early and having to WAIT.  (2) My inability to accurately gauge the amount of time it takes to do things.

In order to get to work on time, I need to leave at nine-thirty-five.  Nine-thirty-three is too early; nine-thirty-eight is suddenly too close to nine-forty and that is too late.  In my mind, if I need to leave at nine-thirty-five, I start towards the car at nine-thirty-four.  It can't take more than a minute to get in the car and turn it on, can it?

So this morning at nine-thirty, I did a final check on the animals and started toward the car.   I hollered at the dogs, grabbed my purse and my keys, and went out front.

I loaded some junk into the Subaru -- mail and stuff to sort through at work.  Then I remembered today is recycle pickup and my truck was full of all the stuff from the store (see previous post).  I put out the recycles and couldn't find my cell phone.  I went back into the house and, after several minutes, found it.  Back out to the Subaru; forgot something in the Trailblazer.  Grab a box out of the Trailblazer, back over to the Subaru.  Can't find the Subaru keys.  Back through the house, looking for the keys, and remember that I'm supposed to bring shoes into work.  While I'm back in the laundry room, I run through the garage to grab bottled water.

Back out front.  Dig through my purse for the keys.  Finally find them on the front seat of the truck where I'd put them while unloading the recycles.  Yell at the dogs again to jump in the car, and take off.

It's now nine-forty-seven.  As I'm speeding down the street, I hear, "Hrrrkkkk" from the back seat. "Hrrkkkk, Hrrkkkk, YAK."  Sam barfs all over the back seat.  It's that yellow-y, slimy, bile-y barf.  Even Weiner doesn't want to be near it and jumps in the front seat.  Now Sam is riding shotgun again with big loops of drool, and Weiner and I are leaning as far away from the center console as we can.  "Hrrrkkkk, YAK." 

The hurrieder I go, the behinder I get.   Words from my mom. When will I learn that rushing around doesn't really get you anywhere on time?  It just makes you rather harried, disheveled -- and today -- smelling very slightly of vomit?